


scream like you mean it (the drywall won't tell)

by GyrFalcon



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jessica/Luke if you want, Jessica/Trish if you want, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 00:52:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5270396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GyrFalcon/pseuds/GyrFalcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hell is the inside of your own head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	scream like you mean it (the drywall won't tell)

What’s black and blue and red all over? Jessica Jones after a bottle of New York’s cheapest and a hardcore flashback.

 

_Main Street. Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane._

 

The mantra comes automatically, even if it’s shaky and slurred. It’s not the words that matter but the emotion, the memories. At the start, when she would refuse to sleep and check every shadow ten times over for _him_ , when she broke a bed and a door and nearly her hand, Trish would sit with her and go through it. Over and over until she wasn’t breathing like she’d just run a marathon or remembered being raped by a mind-controlling bastard. Eventually, Trish replaced the memories of childhood homes. Now she grounds herself with images of Trish’s smile, her warm hands. Or the nearest bottle of vodka and her phone whining because she forgot to charge it again.

 

She remembered to charge it this time. It’s hanging off the dresser telling her it’s Fuck Off o’clock in the morning and she got maybe two hours of sleep. For a brief moment she entertains calling Trish, Luke, that Indian place that delivers 24/7. Her stomach twists and cramps and a sour taste rises in her throat. Grimacing, jaw tight enough to grind teeth, she washes it away with the last dreg of booze and almost regrets it, wondering if she didn’t actually piss in the bottle and leave it at some point during her drunken nightmare night. AKA Monday night. She’s gotta start buying better booze.

 

The place is a mess and the wall now has several pretty fist-shaped dents and one clean hole through it. Which is better than the time she practically took down the entire wall but still not something she wants Trish to hear about and pay to fix. She starts picking her crap up off of the floor, stiff and sore and trying to convince herself that the shaking is actually shivering because she’s in a tank top and briefs. She’s not hungover enough for it to work. She can’t stop looking behind her. Hearing him call her.

 

She’d wonder what the neighbours must think except she doesn’t give a shit and they probably stopped paying too much attention after the time she put her foot through the entire floor. Or the incident with an asshole and the door. The first incident with an asshole and the door.

 

Kilgrave whispers in her ear, strokes her shoulders, lurks in the periphery of her vision. The heavy fog of a hangover is too much like being with him, oppressive, making a maze out of her mind, a fucking bitch to get rid of. She shoves a pile of papers and letters and broken junk away from her, flexes her hands.

 

_Main Street. Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane._

_Main Street. Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane._

_Main Street. Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane._

_Main Street. Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane._

 

Standing up, and not swaying thank you very much, she takes a deep breath and contemplates the Chinese place again. Maybe she’ll stop by Luke’s, get him to turn on Trish’s show.

 

She’s not a superhero but she is Jessica fucking Jones and she can do this.


End file.
